“Okay, give us the details,” she says. “Because you don’t say ‘eventful’ unless something weird happened.”
I glance at Grandma and Aunt Irene, who are both focused on their tasks but still listening intently.
I clear my throat. “So, this morning, early—likestill pitch-black outsideearly—I’m in the barn, starting to feed and water the horses, tugging the hose round the corner by the haystacks, and …” I pause for effect because I can’t help myself. “There’s a body.”
Charli chokes on her water. Matty’s head whips to the side, eyes wide. Grandma and Aunt Irene stop what they’re doing and turn to me.
“A body?” Grandma gasps.
“Yep. I screamed,” I admit. “Like full-on horror-movie scream. I nearly dropped the hose and took off running.”
“And?” Matty demands.
“And it turned out, the body was Waylon Ludlow,” I say. “Passed out cold on a stack of hay.”
Charli’s eyes light up. Matty’s mouth does a funny little twitch. They share a look before either speaks.
“No,” Charli says. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish,” I say. “He didn’t move a muscle when I screamed, so I turned the water hose on him.”
“You didn’t?” Matty says.
“I did. He shot straight up then. Flailing and sputtering.”
Charli bursts out laughing. “Oh, I would’ve paid good money to see that.”
“He looked like hell,” I add. “Confused. Hungover. Soaking wet.”
Grandma leans a hip against the island. “That boy has been a mess since the day he was born.”
Matty turns back to the bowl of potatoes, but she’s smiling now. “What was he even doing there?”
I shrug. “Your guess is as good as mine. At first, he didn’t recognize me. Thought he was at Ironhorse. When he realized he was at Wildhaven Storm, he mumbled something about waiting on Caison last night.”
“Well,” Matty says thoughtfully, “that tracks. Caison called from the tavern to tell me good night, and I told him I wasn’t feeling well. He ran by the pharmacy for me before it closed. He was fussing over me and insisted on staying until I fell asleep. He never mentioned that Waylon was outside.”
“He must have gotten tired of waiting on Caison and wandered off,” I say.
Grandma nods. “Oh, yes. Waylon’s always been a wanderer. Even as a boy. Couldn’t keep him corralled if you tried.”
She smiles to herself, gaze going distant.
“Miriam used to say it was a shame,” Grandma goes on softly, “the way he carried so much guilt around with him after his sister’s accident.”
I look up. “His sister?”
“Yes,” Grandma continues. “Sweet little Crissy.”
Matty’s brows furrow. “I knew the Ludlows had a daughter who died. But … accident?”
I didn’t know.
All our eyes go to Grandma.
She sighs. “You girls were very young. And back then, grown-ups didn’t do all this oversharing. We didn’t talk to children like they were adults. We protected you all from things.”
“From what?” I ask gently.
